


A Gilded Cage

by Life_giver



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_giver/pseuds/Life_giver
Summary: It had started as a game of captor and master, he had played it with Melkor in the beginning, and so he knew the rules well. But with Ar-Pharazôn, there had been a twisted fascination with Sauron's roots. The king wasn’t aware of the gold that ran through Sauron's veins but he understood immortality and the lust for it had been in the gaze that followed Sauron around the court. It was the stepping stone that Sauron had needed, and when it finally became a more carnal need, he twisted both desires together into a golden noose for Ar-Pharazôn to hang himself with.
Relationships: Ar-Pharazôn/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	A Gilded Cage

Wings fluttered against the bars of the cage, the little creature inside desperate for escape. The golden cage was too small, and each time the bird flitted too near Sauron where he was bent, curious gaze following its frantic movements, it would beat its wings against the far side. There was terror in those black eyes. Sauron knew the look well, had been the reason for fear in many faces in another life. 

Here, he was merely a figurehead, the gilded whore who whispered secrets into the king’s ear during the night, moved his hand on many matters with his painted mouth, but power was still a lake he’d only dipped his toes into. Soon, he would wade into it with arms wide, but first his hold would need to tighten to the point of asphyxiation, a particular favorite pastime of Ar-Pharazôn. 

He took his fingers away from the cage and passed them over the bruises against his neck. He wore the collars of his robes high to hide the marks. They were stark and ugly against his skin. Anger twisted inside his chest but he kept his face still as water. His fury worked quietly, as it always had, with careful precision.

He had come here as a captive, he would leave as a god. 

The little golden parakeet had stopped its fluttering, but it stood still on its perch, its eyes following Sauron as he circled the cage slowly, watching the little head twisting. Everything here was golden, down to the locks of his hair. Fire no longer resided in the strands that fell down his back. In this new life, gold was what caught the king’s eye and so gold he would have. 

Sometimes he missed the heat of his own skin, the way he had burned deliciously from the inside, a spirit no one could quite pin down, not even his master. Here the halls were dark and cold, and like a creature desperate for survival, he contorted himself to his surroundings. He had worn many masks since his creation, what was one more?

He bent and opened the gilded cage and reached inside. The bird hesitated, pushing itself against the far side of its cramped enclosure, but with a little cooing and tutting, the bird finally stepped onto his outstretched finger. He brought it near his face, pursing his lips at the parakeet’s beak, as he’d seen Ar-Pharazôn do when he thought he was alone. The king was never alone, Sauron made sure of that. He had eliminated any and all successors to the throne, and even picked off his advisors one by one, until he was the only one left to lie into his ear. 

“You’re very pretty,” He whispered, watching as the bird tilted his head with a jerking motion so that one black eye stared into the deep blue depths of his gaze. 

_“Your eyes are like ice.”_

_Cold and empty._

He stroked a finger down the delicate golden spine. The fear was palpable, and at any moment, the bird would go flying, seeking an escape from what it knew instinctively to be unnatural. Sauron smiled slowly and snapped the bird’s neck with a simple twist of his fingers and then he laid the creature to rest on the windowsill, so very close to freedom. 

“Something so pretty shouldn’t be caged.” 

He had killed many times since he’d bent a knee to his master, foul creatures, pure creatures, even lovers. He’d worn one naked on a banner pole, dark hair drifting in the wind, obscuring a face that had been sculpted by the gods. That one had been a particular favorite and not just for the precious gift his hands had created. He himself had even died mortal deaths and shed his skin to reform it. Death was a way of life, and it was his charge to teach the sons of man that dark lesson. For each death, they would be granted eternal life beyond this mortal plane. 

The hum was soft, a chorus that rose and fell in the darkened halls as he passed through them. He wore the black robes of a high priest. He’d braided and pinned his hair away from his face with dark ribbon slipped through the gold strands.He knew he looked ghostly to the human followers who knelt in succession on either side of the hall. No whispering of his sins here, not when he wore the mask of the chosen. 

Melkor had chosen him alone to carry on his work. 

A black robed figure knelt before a stone slab in the middle of a vast room. Several more hooded shapes remained hidden in the dark corners of the room, their heads bent. He took a torch from one of the dark shapes and held it above the kneeling figure. A smooth, blank mask of obsidian covered the face of the kneeling sacrifice, and bending, Sauron took the mask away so that he could see the face of the person who had devoted his life to Melkor. Behind them, Melkor rose like a menacing shadow, sitting on his black throne, a beautiful and silent god. 

In a world of gold, Melkor still ruled the night.

There was no fear in this man’s face as Sauron held the torch above him. An herb that calmed the chosen and induced visions burned in the heavy braziers at Melkor’s feet. Even he himself began to feel the effects of the smoke. He became light-headed, and when he looked down to the man kneeling in front of him, his face came into sharp focus. 

Firelight danced on the man’s handsome features as Sauron bent close. Eru had spent less time on the children of men, but he had still made many that were beautiful. Sauron resisted the urge to smile as he tilted the man’s head back with a curled finger. He had been clean-shaven like one of the first born, like the form he wore now, exquisitely perfect. Sauron himself had bathed the man with the mask still in place, cleaning away the filth of mortality, but he always liked to look on the face of the creature he was offering up to his master. He offered nothing but the highest quality. It had always been that way, even in the time before, when he had sat beside the throne, in a place of honor, surveying the perfection he had forged for his lover. It was his highest devotion. 

“Where do you go now?” Sauron whispered, fingers dipping into the black sleeve of his robe.

“To the darkness,” The man answered just before a blade of gold passed over his throat cleanly. The spray of blood against Sauron’s face was exhilarating and when he moistened his lips, he tasted life there. Two priests caught the man as he fell back, gurgling in his death throes. His body was lifted onto the dark slab of stone before Melkor’s statue, and Sauron gazed at the face of his master as he raised his bloody palms to him in supplication. 

_Come home to me._

“Do you find this amusing?” Ar-Pharazôn circled the room, casting his gaze everywhere but at Sauron who reclined in his bed, cheek pillowed in his hand. He noticed that the king passed over the windowsill, now empty of the dead bird he had laid there. Not a word had been spoken about his little tantrum. The king let many things go unpunished until they were safely behind locked doors. 

“-to come to me bathed in blood?” Finally Ar-Pharazôn looked at him, clutching his court robes to his neck as if the very sight of Sauron affronted him. He had come to his king dressed in nothing but his golden hair and the blood of his people. Was that not enough devotion for him? 

“I must lead the sheep,” Sauron answered with a slow shrug of his shoulder, and yet he smiled as his thumb passed over the corner of his mouth. The blood had cooled but still tasted of thriving life. “How else will they meet their true maker-”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Ar-Pharazôn roared, a lion robed in gold. 

Sauron felt his heart race in excitement as Ar-Pharazôn surged towards the bed and planted his hands on the mattress so that the bed rocked with his anger. Sauron calmly moved his naked thigh away from him, eyebrow raising. The king was one of the most striking men he had come across in his time on Arda. He had eyes deeper than the emeralds set in his crown, and his skin was dusk to Sauron’s dawn. He was truly beautiful, and he had a temper to match the gods. 

“I hadn’t the time to bathe before you called on me,” He murmured, casting his eyes down to the king’s jeweled hands. His fingers reached out to drift over the many golden rings he wore. There would always be lust for pretty stones in his heart, his kind was not immune to that sin. In fact, the Eldar coveted pretty things more than any other creature. “I always hasten to your desires, my lord-”

“You are a foul-tongued harlot,” The king hissed, pulling his hand away from his caress. “You lie to me. A snake in my bed-”

“And yet you let the snake into your bed of your own free will,” He said simply. The mask slipped for the briefest of moments as fury roiled in his body. The king had been lending his ear to someone other than him, and _that_ he could not have. Despite the loyalty he had charmed around himself, he would be naive to think there were no hidden daggers waiting for him in the dark corners of Ar-Pharazôn’s court.

He anticipated the hot sting to his cheek as his head was whipped to the side with the blow. “As long as it pleases you of course,” He continued, turning to look at the king through the mess of his bloody hair. His nostrils flared with hatred and his heart soared when Ar-Pharazôn looked away beneath the ice of his stare.

_You could slay kings with your gaze._

“You once sang my praises,” He said in a soft voice. “I carry on the gods' work for that eternal life you so covet.” Ar-Pharazôn kept his gaze on the barred window until Sauron cupped his cheek to bring his eyes back to him. Garnets such as those would look fine set into a golden ring. Maybe he would wear them on his hand when he brought down this man’s ruin. 

“I don’t understand your kind,” Ar-Pharazôn whispered, brow creasing as his gaze shifted over Sauron’s face. “You set yourself up as gods, but your lust is greater than even the lust of man. You’re unnatural.” And yet the kiss still came, and Sauron tilted his face to it, feeling the rough stubble of an exhausted man against his lips. Because the king didn’t understand, because Sauron was so other, was precisely why he was in this bed now. Men were full of all sorts of perverted desires and curiosity. 

_“So it isn’t much different then,” Ar-Pharazôn had laughed when it was over the first time. Sauron had lain naked beside him, his skin glistening in the dawn light, his eyes on the storm clouds rolling in from the East. He had let the darkness grow deep in his belly like the roiling clouds outside his window, and he knew one day he would release it, and on that day, his smile would no longer be painted on. Golden chains still linked his wrists together and he imagined with each breath, wrapping those chains around the king’s neck and squeezing._

_He’d left red smears of carmine and kohl against Ar-Pharazôn’s pillow._

It had started as a game of captor and master, he had played it with Melkor in the beginning, and so he knew the rules well. But with Ar-Pharazôn, there had been a twisted fascination with Sauron’s roots. He wasn’t aware of the gold that ran through Sauron’s veins but he understood immortality and the lust for it had been in the gaze that followed Sauron around the court. It was the stepping stone that Sauron had needed, and when it finally became a more carnal need, he twisted both desires together into a golden noose for Ar-Pharazôn to hang himself with. 

He turned his head as hands lifted the heavy veil of his hair away from his neck so that lips could worship the curve of his ear. He laced it with jewelry as he’d done in his time in Valinor. He draped himself in his own craftsmanship, thinly wrought Elven gold dripped from his wrists and his neck. He bathed in his own vanity and the gifts of Ar-Pharazôn so that he had become a shining beacon to the bowing puppets around the king.

_There is only one path, and I walk it._

He felt the blood being licked from his neck, tasted it against his tongue when their mouths finally met. He felt a surging warmth throughout his entire body at the copper sting. Another soul he had lifted up to Melkor where he dwelt in darkness, awaiting his own release. 

“I have spilt blood for you,” He whispered as the king pushed into his body, his wrists locked above his head as if they were still bound in chains. “Blood for your eternal life.” He felt the man shudder at his words; it drove him mad, the killing, and yet it excited him more in the confines of his own bed. When he pushed a hand against Ar-Pharazôn’s face, he left a bloody handprint. 

He pretended to struggle for effect, twisting, smearing the blood down the king’s chest until he felt a hand close against the delicate tendons of his neck. This flesh was so fragile, entirely vulnerable to the violence of men, to the king’s darker desires. He had to remind himself not to push him too far. He’d always had trouble with boundaries, he could still remember a phantom pain against his cheek the first time he had misstepped with a lord far greater than the one using his body. 

_“I have set you up as a lord, but you do not rule over me,” The heat of Melkor’s breath seared his cheek as he twisted his head to avoid the sting. “Even in matters such as these.” The robes of a previous master, now dirtied by the soot of Angband, were thrown down before him where he knelt._

Love had made him malleable, had made him imprudent. 

He would always be someone’s weapon, never a master of himself. 

The hand around his neck tightened and he began to claw earnestly, nails digging into the flesh of the king’s wrist. There was little pleasure when he was in this dark mood, when Sauron was unable to twist him to serve. He gasped, sucking in one last lungful of air as the king’s fingers bruised his neck. With one final brutish grunt, the man finished and the hand went slack against him. He wasted no time in pushing him away, sour at the turn of the tides. 

His previous master had been dark and brooding and often violent, but there had also been great pleasure, and in the end, there had been attachment. He sat at the edge of the bed, long, pale hair pooling in his lap as he turned the bloodstone on his finger round and round, until the angry thudding of his heart calmed. The pain in his neck still throbbed, but it was a familiar pain.

_“You have warmed the chill of this place-”_

“Come here,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded, and Sauron cast a weary glance over his shoulder at his most recent captor. It was with resignation that he slid into the circle of waiting arms, accepted the tender kiss to his forehead, the gentle petting of his hair, the cooing of Ar-Pharazôn’s guilt, as if he were some bird to be placated by petting. 

“You warm this bed better than any before you.” 

He remembered what love tasted of now; ashes and fire, blood against his face. 

  


He waited until the north star began to fade into dawn before dressing and slipping from the room. He was a dark shadow rushing down the empty hallways of this vast castle, his feet bare on the cold stone. It was only in these empty hours before the sun rose that his grief could be quelled. 

He went down to his knees before the towering statue he had built when he had finally gained the trust of his enemy. He had sat beside the artist and the labourers, detailing from memory the face, the dark fall of his hair, the towering crown he’d made with his own hands as a gift. He’d placed his very heart into his master’s hands when he’d set his crown of silmarils in his lap. 

_Do with it as you will, but take it._

_“There is no finer gift than one’s own soul.”_

“Master,” He whispered, touching his forehead to the chilled naked foot of the statue. His hands felt the familiar shape, searched blindly for the fall of stiff robes in the darkness. The smell of sweet rot assailed his senses. A follower of Melkor had left a bowl of fruit at his feet, untouched and now decaying. 

“Does this please you?” Silence was his only answer and when he tilted his face up, the empty eyes of Melkor looked down at him. “Do I please you still?” Silence. A cold draft filtered through the hall, chilling him to the bone, stirring the thin robe he had wrapped around himself. He had once cut the flesh of his own hand and pressed it to the black stone, just to feel a bit of warmth, a pulse of energy from the veil that separated them. But Melkor was quiet as death now. 

He gathered his robes as he mounted the steps slowly, bare feet cold against the stone, and then he climbed, hand over hand, as gracefully as gravity would allow until he sat against the statue's knee. He felt like a child as he looked up into Melkor’s empty face. When he touched the hand that laid against the statue’s knee between his legs, it did not touch back, but lay cold against his naked thigh. 

_"If you had been a Vala, the world would be in the palm of your hand,” Melkor whispered, cupping his face, lips drifting over his cheeks, his closed eyes, his parted, panting mouth. His hips moved in fluid arcs and anguished shuddering_ _in Melkor’s lap. To anyone passing the throne room, it would seem he was sitting in Melkor’s lap, but his robes hid the sin beneath. Melkor had stripped him to the waist and left teeth marks against the side of his neck the moment he’d entered the throne room, battle plans lay strewn about the floor, forgotten. A gift of blood glinted against his hand, a garnet stone, “To match your eyes, little wolf.”_

_He held onto the arms of Melkor’s great black throne as he worshipped with desperate devotion._

He had once been deemed precious, had been named so even. He remembered that from another life.

Sauron lay his cheek against the stone arm of his master, clinging to memory as if he could reform it into solidity. Melkor had seen his worth, whatever his shortcomings. Perhaps that was why he had never sought his own power, but built upon his master’s realm. He had become complacent with so much power at his fingertips, lulled into thinking his paltry seat in Angband was a throne. He had placed himself into a cage of his own making and sang for Melkor gladly. 

Love was a ruinous thing. 

  
  
  


He watched the wolves flitting through the trees as he urged his horse on. They had caught the scent of a deer and were on the hunt. Above, the dense foliage muted the world around him and he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the gathering darkness. Beside him, Ar-Pharazôn’s horse shifted restlessly, eager to break away from the wolf pack they were trailing. 

“They will spoil the hunt,” Ar-Pharazôn grumbled, dispelling the quiet peace. 

Sauron sighed, unhooking his quiver of arrows and handing them to the king, along with his long bow and jumping down from his horse. He set off into the forest armed only with a pair of curved dirks he’d fashioned himself. He still spent time in the forge when he could sneak away. His hands still ached to create beauty. There were some parts of himself he would never be able to strip away, even to fit a necessary mold. 

He found the wolve’s tracks and followed them deeper into the forest, leaving the king behind, and when he was far enough away, he whistled. Two of the beasts came rushing to greet him and he knelt down to grab at the scruff of their necks. They were smaller than the ones of Angband, gentler, tame even. They walked beside him through the gardens and the halls of Ar-Pharazôn’s fortress to the severe glances of the people. 

It was a great risk to his cloak, but he suffered it because these beasts comforted him in this strange land with these foreign men and their strange customs and distasteful otherness. He buried his face in the female wolf’s neck, smelling the forest and the blood of a recent kill. His bed in Angband had often smelled similar, and it had always driven his master mad with lust. The alfa had circled back and he realized that they had taken down Ar-Pharazôn’s quarry already. He could feel the heat of Ar-Pharazôn’s anger as the king’s horse finally caught up to him. There would be no sport tonight but the sport Sauron could provide on his own.

“It’s getting dark, my lord,” He murmured, feeling eyes on the back of his bare neck as he continued to pet the wolf sitting at his heels. 

“Why do you treat them as pets?” 

Melkor had asked the same of him once, before he’d known his nature. 

Why had he once burned with an insatiable fire? Why had he so often walked the woods in the form of a wolf to be alone? Why had he hidden himself away in the forges of Aulë so that darkness could claim him? Why did he do anything in these paltry forms of his? The only form that had ever felt like truth had had no flesh, or thoughts, only song, beating steady in the darkness. He often yearned for that nothingness again, like the lost memories of a child in the womb. He could never return to that place. 

Melkor had understood that longing. It was why they had both labored to lay these lands to waste. It was why he continued to mold these empty, beautiful husks of his, to seduce the unwilling, so that all would know the perfection of _before_ , and he would one day rule over that perfection as he had never been allowed to beneath the hand of someone stronger. 

“Look into their eyes,” He drug his long nails beneath the chin of one of the wolves. She flashed her canines at Ar-Pharazôn so that his horse stepped several paces away and then shifted restlessly while the king tried to calm her. “They have deep souls. They were one of the first servants of Melkor, and some of the fiercest.” 

_Little Wolf_ , his master had once called him. And he had come to heel like those wild beasts at Melkor’s feet. It was in the deep of night that he most missed the cold press of Melkor’s hand to his lips. 

Ar-Pharazôn turned his eyes from him, gazing out to the quickly darkening forest around them. Sauron could feel the king’s mounting discomfort keenly, and beneath that, the faint scent of fear the king tried so desperately to conceal when they were alone. Lust and fear had always been his greatest tools, and he wielded them as he’d once wielded a hammer, with concentrated precision. What he was creating here would be his final offering to his master, and he needed it to be absolute in its perfection. 

_Your death is not yet near_ , he thought with a smile as he rose and sent the wolves off to finish their meal. He would call them in from the cold to sleep at his feet late in the night. 

“Let us see you safely home,” Sauron said, mounting his horse and pulling his furs closer against the chill. He slid his dirks back into their sheaths, his eyes tracking Ar-Pharazôn as he tried to calm his restless horse. He patted the neck of his own horse to keep him calm as the wolves began to take up a howl that seemed to surround them. He trusted animals more than he did these men who wore more faces than even he did. The animals would be the first to run when the darkness came back to these lands. 

“Ride ahead,” Ar-Pharazôn said with a clearing of his throat, and Sauron urged his horse onto the path ahead of him without question, or even a backwards glance. He knew the king would shun his bed tonight, and that sent a thrill of pleasure through him. Each notch of fear he instilled inside of Ar-Pharazôn’s heart, brought him a step closer to the throne.

  
  


The fleet stood waiting like dark wraiths in the harbor, rocked by choppy waters. He could see the hulking ships with each flash of lightning on the black horizon. They had been built from the deepest recesses of his mind, where hatred grew like rotting vines. His pale hands curled tightly against the stone parapet as he leaned over it, the wind raking his hair back in fierce gusts. He could smell the incoming storm on the air, and it flooded his veins with such exhilarating life. His heart pounded in a violent rhythm that was almost human. 

He had overseen the building of the fleet, and had bled every Númenórean detail from its creation. This was Melkor’s fleet, not Ar-Pharazôn’s. The fleet darkened the entire harbor, a massive undertaking not yet seen in Middle Earth. The ships were built from ebon wood, and the sails were blacker than his master’s eyes had been on a blood-soaked battlefield. 

The gods would quake before him. 

He found the king alone on his throne, head bent, shrouded in darkness. Only one lone sconce burned beside the throne. Sauron slowly lowered himself to his knees before the king and laid a hand on his lap. His golden hair had been left unbound and was so long it touched the king’s feet. He took up the king’s jeweled hand and kissed his roughened knuckles; his hand was small against Ar-Pharazôn’s palm, as it had been in Melkor’s, almost delicate despite the rough smith work he had done in Valinor.

_You are like a bird, my little gilded bird._

_Little Wolf._

_Fire Spirit._

_Cruel demon. Treacherous beast. Abomination._

Sometimes in the night, he swore he could still hear Celebrimbor’s cries on the wind, cursing his very name with each dying breath. It was death to love him. 

“Your mind is troubled, my lord,” He murmured. The king’s head remained bent but his fingers curled around his own and held tight. When he bent his head to touch his lips to the king’s downturned mouth, he tasted wine. 

He touched the cold stone of the throne, running his long fingers against the unyielding marble as he tilted his head and gazed at the king openly. He had risen himself to such power that bowing and scraping was needed rarely. He was the only one of Ar-Pharazôn’s subjects that looked at him directly, who challenged his very thoughts and twisted them to suit his own narrative. 

When the king finally lifted his head, his brow was furrowed, and even in the low flickering firelight, Sauron could see tendrils of white in the growing scruff of his beard. Ar-Pharazôn had always been a man of vanity, to see him so haggard was almost unsettling. He was always bathed in gold from head to toe, so that all who looked upon him, knew that his kingdom was a thriving kingdom, and he was ruler of it all. He had brought Sauron to his side to preserve his fading youth, and yet mortality came for all the race of men. It breathed down their neck from infancy and slowly wore away at them until brittle bones or a weak heart finally took them, if an arrow didn’t do the deed first. 

A soft, coddled hand touched Sauron’s cheek, thumb brushing over the smoothness of his skin, skin that would never age, that would never crease like brittle paper. He would always have the look of a mortal of twenty, until he formed for himself another mask, perhaps one even fairer, more to his tastes. He missed the flames, the way Melkor had shielded his eyes from the light that emanated from him. Maybe he could twist himself into a faded replica of what he had once been beside his master. 

Ar-Pharazôn’s lips pulled at the corners into a grimace, and deep within those jewel-toned eyes, Sauron saw jealousy and anger. He tilted his head down and looked up at the king in deference, imagining all the while the weight of that jeweled crown sitting on Ar-Pharazôn’s brow. 

“My lord, your strength is greater than-”

“Greater than your gods?” Ar-Pharazôn challenged, eyes turning to liquid emeralds in the firelight. 

“They have not been challenged since the dark lord sat on his throne,” Sauron said carefully. 

The cold, hard stone of Númenor bit into his knees through the thin silk of his robes, but he pushed the pain down where every hurt or discomfort he’d been volleyed with over the centuries was hidden; deep within his empty, black heart. 

“They’ve grown bloated and indolent, swollen with ill-begotten power. They hoard their immortality and keep it from the race of men wittingly. They see you as weak and unimportant, unworthy of their gifts.” Sauron spoke low and as he spoke, he pulled at the lacings of the king’s trousers, undressing him with each careful lie. If he was nothing else, he was a persuasive creature. 

He’d lain naked, whispering battle plans to Melkor many a night, turning his hand to fit his own designs, and Melkor had been none the wiser. Of course, their vision had been interwoven but where Melkor would have been content to swing his hammer through Arda to get what he wanted, Sauron had seen the delicate nature of tyranny and transformation. It took a calculated hand to reshape an entire world. 

Always a pawn, the hand that moved cities, but never the face of rebellion. He had stood behind thrones without sitting on one truly for centuries. He had set wheels to turning and lands to burning in another’s name since his creation. 

The wind was beginning to shift finally, and he smiled a snake’s smile as he held Ar-Pharazôn in the palm of his hand. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
